I've been really training now since the beginning of March. Since I was so out of shape before that, it's been a little tough getting back into the swing. But now I'm at thirty miles a week, five six mile runs a week. Whoo-hoo!
I have to admit, however, that although I can run a lot, I don't always do it well.
Take Friday for instance.
I was on around mile four. The sun was shining, the sea breeze was whisking past my head, the birds were singing. In full throttle, I was enjoying the evening and the scenery as I passed by.
It was about then that I saw a plane coming into land. We have a small airport here, and my run takes me right past the runway. I find it entertaining to watch the small propeller plane settle onto the tarmac. I find it thoroughly frightening to actually be in the plane at that particular moment, but that's another story.
So it was that I looked up into the bright blue sky, smiling at the cute plane as my right foot decided to betray me and leave the concrete running path. My ankle happily joined in this game and I launched forward. Fabric tore as my knee met most intimately with the concrete. My hands were spared much of this disaster as I rolled off onto the grass clutching my ankle and moaning.
I'm sure the passing motorists had a nice laugh.
I just lay there for about five minutes, knee bleeding, ankle throbbing, and muttering ow, ow ow.
Fortunately, nothing was too badly injured and I was able to complete the run.
And yet another reason why I hate flying.